


Leave the Cold Behind

by mccalled



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, San Francisco, Travel, pack!fic, recreational alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:15:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mccalled/pseuds/mccalled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Beacon Hills in late winter is like a recovering fever, shaky and cold. </i>
</p><p><i>“I need to get out of here,” Stiles says, and it’s a thought that he didn’t realize he was having until he’s said it. It rolls over him easy and slow, and it’s exactly what he wants. </i><br/> </p><p>or, they go to San Francisco for spring break. Nothing really happens, but that's the great thing about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leave the Cold Behind

**Author's Note:**

> Literally the most self-indulgent thing. I just really wanted them to to go to SF, so. They did. Set in the nebulous future-time of senior year when they're all friends and happy.
> 
> Every single word of this is thanks to [Bree](http://breenwolf.tumblr.com) and [Janessa](http://superwolves.tumblr.com), who sat there from beginning to end and are beyond perfect. I don't even know what else to say but thank you!
> 
> Here is an umbrella warning for possible over-romanticizing of San Francisco. I know, I know!
> 
> Title from The Only Place by Best Coast. Also [look](http://8tracks.com/vervaines/leave-the-cold-behind), a short little playlist of SF-y songs (mostly).

Beacon Hills in late winter is like a recovering fever, shaky and cold. Stiles has experienced eighteen individual Beacon Hills winters and this is by far the worst that he can remember.

He stomps the lingering mud from his shoes on the welcome mat before letting himself into his house, slipping on the hardwood because the soles are still wet and he’s precarious enough on his feet on a good day. Scott follows next, Isaac behind him, and Stiles turns on a heel to face them where they’re putting their coats up by the door.

“I need to get out of here,” Stiles says, and it’s a thought that he didn’t realize he was having until he’s said it. It rolls over him easy and slow, and it’s exactly what he wants. He’s never felt a particular urge to get out of Beacon Hills before, aside from the general college-planning and future-thinking and assumption-doing, but they were attacked by harpies last week and the forecast says there’s a storm rolling in on Friday and he feels like he hasn’t been dry in months and he just knows that he needs to get out of this town. For a bit.

“We just got here?” Scott says, wiping his wet hands on his jeans. “We can go to my house, I guess...”

“Spring break,” Stiles says, ignoring him. “It’s in a few weeks. Let’s go somewhere. A city. With sunlight.”

Scott looks thoughtful at that, and Isaac tilts a head, narrowing his eyes and looking at Scott. 

“Erica would be down," Isaac says, lifting his eyebrows. Scott’s already got his phone out, and he’s got his Allison-face on. 

 

“Where would you want to go?” Scott asks the next day, spinning in his desk chair and skimming his socked toes against the floor. 

“Probably somewhere in driving-distance, if we’re only going to have a week. And Erica has this thing about planes,” Stiles says. 

“Big cities are pack-neutral,” Scott adds, and Stiles considers that the biggest selling point thus far. The further he can get from any supernatural creatures that aren't the ones he calls his friends, the better. 

“Okay, so what,” Stiles says, thinking of big cities within driving distance that should be warmer than Beacon Hills will be in three weeks’ time. “Sacramento? San Francisco?”

Scott’s ears perk up at that, and he nods furiously, already bounding across his room to reach for his phone. 

“You can deal with convincing Derek,” Scott tells Stiles, not looking up from his phone. Stiles thinks of a week in the city with Derek at his side, and feels excited in a way that he hasn’t felt since his 18th - Derek’s hands on his neck, pushing at the red shirt he’d worn specifically for the occasion, his face lighter than Stiles had seen since they’d made the decision to wait.

“Allison knows where we can stay,” Scott says after a moment, and Stiles nods.

Stiles has never been, but he sees the Golden Gate and sourdough bread bowls in his mind’s eye and yeah. San Francisco will work.

 

"San Francisco?"

"Yes." Stiles says. 

"Why?" Derek asks. 

"Because it’s our last spring vacation of high school and we want to actually make it a vacation for once. Last year we were being chased by like...everything," Stiles says, shaking off the memory of the supernatural shitstorm of the previous spring. He’d walked into his SATs with only five minutes to spare and a gash down his shoulder blade that he kept craning his neck to check on - he’d gotten two warnings from the proctor about cheating before he’d said fuck it and just left it alone.

Derek hums, licking his lips. “Who’s all going?”

“Everyone,” Stiles says simply.

“Even Jackson?” Derek asks skeptically. Stiles just shrugs. 

“I was surprised too, but I’m not one to deny the lizard man a nice shopping district. I think it’s a compensation thing. I try not to bring it up,” he says, and grins when Derek’s lips quirk upward.

“How are you paying?”

Stiles shrugs. “Splitting gas and stuff. Allison’s got some rich family friends with an apartment downtown that they only use during the summer, so they’re letting us use it. So just food and pocket money, really,” He says. Derek looks like he’s about to protest, and Stiles raises a hand. “They’re not hunter-ites, I checked.”

Derek crosses his arms and looks toward the ceiling, muttering something under his breath that Stiles can't hear. 

“What was that?” Stiles says, fighting off a smile and leaning in an inch.

“I can cover Erica, Isaac, and Boyd,” Derek says, rolling his eyes like it pains him to do something nice. Or admit to doing something nice, at least.

“So is that a yes on you going too?” Stiles needles, poking him just under the ribs to needle more. Derek grabs on to Stiles’ finger to make him stop and doesn’t let go. Stiles’ feels the tingle all the way up his arm. 

“Do you want me there?” Derek asks. Stiles can hear the nonchalance straining from deep in his throat, calculated and meticulous like most things about Derek tend to be. Stiles doesn’t buy it.

“You’re right. I didn't even think of that. I take it all back, invitation rescinded. I’m just gonna go invite my other alpha-boyfriend. He’d be more fun anyway,” he teases. Derek looks unimpressed, and Stiles narrows his eyes, inspecting Derek up and down. Sees the tension along his shoulders, and the way he keeps rubbing at his forearm, digging figure eights with his thumb where the bone and muscle meet. Stiles looks at the ground, hitting the floor with the heel of his shoe.

"Stiles," Derek says, and Stiles' eyes snap up towards him. His name out of Derek's mouth never stops being like a shock to his system, and Stiles can't help but meet his eyes and drop the pretense. 

"You know my answer, dude," Stiles says quietly. Derek drops his arms and nods, and Stiles gets it. 

Stiles smiles, and grabs the back of Derek’s neck to pull him into a kiss. Just because he can.

+++

Jackson gets bored around hour two and starts texting them all mean things. Stiles is driving the Jeep, Derek next to him - Isaac, Scott, and Erica smashed together in the back like wolf-flavored sardines. Scott wanted to go with Allison in the Camaro, but Isaac wanted to be with Scott and Derek, and Erica wanted to be with Isaac and Stiles. The chance to screw with Scott for four hours was just a perk, and it ended up being the only arrangement that left everybody marginally happy.

So Allison ended up in the Camaro with Lydia and Jackson, Boyd behind the wheel. 

(Erica pitched a detailed campaign for being able to drive the Camaro. Everybody knew it was a lost cause before it even began, but she just wouldn’t be Erica if she didn’t try - the opportunity to antagonize Scott was her consolation prize).

“Where did the chips go?” Isaac asks, leaning forward to look in the front floorboard. 

“They’re not up here, dude,” Stiles says, eyeing Isaac in the rearview mirror. “Scott had them last.”

“I’m thirsty,” Erica says, boredom lacing her voice. 

“Where’d the water go?”

“Jackson says that Lydia won’t let him roll down the windows and he’s demanding we switch cars,” Scott says, not looking up from his phone. “Allison says it’s because Lydia doesn’t want her hair to get windblown.”

“Tell Jackson to suck it,” Stiles says, switching lanes and merging onto I-80. “There’s no way in hell I’m spending the rest of this drive with Assface.”

“He also says that he can smell Derek’s hair gel from here, and that tomorrow he should do as the San Franciscans do and have a little taste,” Scott reads. Stiles sees his eyebrows furrow a second later, and he pulls at his bottom lip. “He says that also goes for his taste in boyfriends.” 

Derek huffs through his nose - half annoyance, half amusement. Stiles thinks that might just be his default setting. 

“Well, that’s a little harsh,” Erica says, looking thoughtful. “I personally think that Stiles could do much better than ol’ oilslick, here.”

Derek turns his head a fraction, side-eyeing her. She smiles, and if Stiles didn’t know better, he’d say she looks almost fond. 

“Well, you’re biased,” Stiles tells her, matter-of-fact. “Because you love me.”

The fond look drops from Erica’s face. Mostly.

 

“Stiles, if you touch that fucking knob one more time, I’m going to throw you out the window and I won’t even be sorry,” Erica says, leaning forward and glaring at him. 

“I’m driving, it’s my jeep. I choose the music,” Stiles says simply, turning the volume up and grabbing his iPod to find the next obnoxious electropop song he can find, just because he knows it drives Erica crazy. 

“I am going to rip your throat out,” Erica says, glaring at Scott as he jostles her in his attempts to seat-dance and text simultaneously. 

Stiles just laughs, and meets Derek’s eyes. “Sorry, try again.”

Erica groans and flops back into her seat, crossing her arms and boring holes into the back of Stiles’ head. Stiles shrugs and starts singing along - she’ll get over it. 

 

“We’re going to Haight, right?” Scott asks, his voice tinged with worry like they hadn’t spent the last two weeks obnoxiously planning every aspect of this trip. 

“I don’t even know what that _is_ ,” Isaac says, munching happily on the recently-recovered chips. 

“You know, dude. Like, summer of love and whatever. It’s where all the hippies went and hung out in the 60’s. Didn’t you watch that documentary in history?” Scott says, leaning over Erica to look at him. His eyes drop down to the chips in his hand and Isaac tilts the bag toward him unconsciously. 

“Fell asleep,” he shrugs. Scott nods like he understands.

“And we’re doing the Castro right?” Erica asks. “If I don’t get a penis-shaped cookie, I will force one of you to make me an entire batch of them at home.”

“Allison wants to do the art museums,” Scott says. “She says there’s like, a replica of one of the ones from Paris or something? I don’t know.”

“Can we stop Jackson from shopping at all costs?” Erica asks excitedly, an evil glint in her eye. “Like, can we just tie him to Boyd or something so he’s forced to stay with us and not go wandering into every store in the city? And duct tape his mouth while we’re at it?”

They all take a moment to consider this.

“As much as that idea appeals to me,” Derek says after a moment. “I think it would draw a little more attention than we want.”

“Dammit,” Stiles mutters. There’s a digital sign ahead that says _Dntwn SF - 32 minutes_ and Stiles finds himself holding his breath. He looks in his mirror and sees the Camaro in the lane next lane over. Scott immediately plasters himself to the window, waving to Allison who’s rolling down the window of the front passenger seat. 

Jackson’s giving them all a murderous glare through his window, and Stiles has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. “I think he heard us,” he mutters to Derek, whose lips quirk upward in response. He turns his head and looks out his window, away from the car next to them. 

“What about you?” Stiles asks. Derek turns his head back to face Stiles. 

“Me what?”

“They’ve all got plans. What do you want to do?” Stiles asks, passing the Camaro so that they can all stop making fools of themselves.

“Nothing,” Derek says. Stiles gives him a _look_ , and Derek looks at him, shrugging. “What? _Nothing_.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the desperate _ping_ of Scott’s phone. “It’s from Jackson uh....I don’t think I should read that one out loud,” he says, cringing slightly. Stiles doesn’t even want to know. 

“Museums?” Stiles asks. Derek just shakes his head. “Bridges? There are a lot of those.”

“Nope,” Derek says, and he’s smiling a little smugly because he’s an ass. 

“Oh, I know!” Stiles says, pounding the steering wheel once with the flat of his hand. “Gay clubs! You want all up on those dick cookies Erica was talking about, don’t you?”

“They’re coconut,” Erica adds from the back. 

“Yes,” Derek says. 

“Really?” Stiles asks, his head swinging in Derek’s direction. 

“No,” he says, looking unimpressed. Stiles huffs, looking back at the road. 

“I’ll figure it out,” Stiles says, because now it's a mystery, or a puzzle. Derek just nods encouragingly. Stiles knows better than to believe it and just glares in response. 

He’s busy grilling Derek on what his thing might be when they turn a corner around Berkeley and all thoughts of museums and bars are wiped immediately from his mind. The entire skyline is on display for them to see, wide and sprawling across the water. They hit traffic in the East Bay, but the view of downtown from the Bay Bridge is enough to override any lingering annoyance with bay area drivers. The city is surprisingly light - white buildings and clear sky, lazily stretching for miles. Stiles expected a lot of harsh lines and dark skyscrapers, maybe some clouds or off-colored water, but instead his sight is covered only by miles of white and blue.

+++

Jackson, unsurprisingly, sniffs out the Armani within twenty minutes of reaching the apartment. It’s only a few blocks from the shopping district, and Jackson looks small and crazed bracketed by the tall white buildings and relaxed San Franciscans lounging on the steps of union square. 

“Wait, there’s an entirely different Macy’s just for the men’s things?” Stiles hears him say from where he’s pulling Lydia along at a quicker pace than the rest of them. 

“Should have tied him up,” he mutters, shaking his head at the lost opportunity. They’re strolling leisurely down down the sidewalk, recovering from the four hour drive and obnoxious bay area traffic. 

Jackson talks big game in Beacon Hills, but the fact of the matter is just that - Jackson is a Beacon Hills kid through and through, and everybody knows that he orders his Hugo Boss suits and Brooks Brothers sweaters online and gets them tailored to fit down on Main street. The Armani boutique in San Francisco is an entirely different animal, and Stiles wonders idly if it bites.

“What are the chances he starts crying when he steps into Saks?” Stiles asks Scott, who snorts loudly in response.

“I wonder how long we can go with not telling him there even _is_ a Saks,” Erica laughs as they turn onto Market. There’s an Apple store on the corner, a huge glowing white box of a building which Stiles thinks is pretty cool, though he’d expected it to be bigger. It’s got its own BART entrance though, which is a little more confusing because _what_. 

He hears a few French teenagers giggling behind him and follows their line of sight to see Jackson practically running towards Stockton street, pulling Lydia along behind him. She’s yelling at him to slow down and trying to hold down her skirt, but willingly following him through the hoards of people all the same. 

Stiles rolls his eyes and keeps up with the others who are still happily walking in the other direction. He catches up with Derek who’s trailing along at the back of the group, watching them all with what he probably thinks is a disinterested eye. 

“Having fun?” Stiles asks, nudging him in the ribs. Derek doesn’t say anything, just grabs his hand in response. “You mean you don’t want to go terrorize Georgio with Jackson? I think he might need adult supervision, if you ask me,” Stiles says.

“You’re all adults now, Stiles,” Derek says, eyeing the archway of the Flood Building with interest.

“Jackson?” Stiles asks incredulously. “Debatable.”

“Cable cars!” Isaac yells excitedly, pulling Erica with him towards the corner of Powell and Market where the cable car is turning on the platform to be reloaded with passengers. Derek looks away from the building and sighs in Isaac’s direction.

“Him too,” Stiles says, shaking his head and following them to the line anyway.

 

The Powell street cable car is probably the most San Franciscan thing Stiles could possibly think to do on their first day in the city. The first part of Powell is a blast of signs and lights and people. The neighborhoods further on are quieter, trees lining the streets, lazy with weekend residents shuffling along. 

Stiles stands on the platform on the edge of the car, feeling like he belongs in the opening credits of _Full House_ or something. There’s light chatter of the people onboard, and the mechanical tin of the cables below them. It stops for a moment at the top of Lombard street, and Stiles stretches off of the side of the cable car to see down the hill, hanging from one arm. 

"Stiles, you're gonna fall off," Lydia tells him. She's standing on the edge next to him, her skirt trailing behind her in the breeze. She pulls her hair over one shoulder so it doesn't get caught in her lipgloss. 

"Or get hit by a car," Erica says from where she's sitting on the bench right in front of him, and she kicks at his shin lightly. He flings his leg behind him to avoid another kick. 

"No, I won't," he says, leaning out a little further as the car starts moving again.

"Kid, what the hell do you think you're doing?" The MUNI worker yells when he sees Stiles. "Can you read?" He asks, pointing violently to the sign on the side of the car telling him to hang on and keep all limbs on board. 

"Nope, forgot how," Stiles says, but he wraps his arm back around the pole anyway, only returning his leg to the platform after narrowing his eyes at Erica and making sure she won’t try and kick him again. Her boots are a lot more painful than they look, and he’s been bruise-free for weeks and would like to keep it that way. Derek snorts from his seat on the inside of the car, and Stiles reaches forward to hit the back of his head. "Shut up."

 

They end up back on Market that evening because Jackson spends the entire trip back to the hotel complaining that he’s hardly even scratched the surface of the shopping district, and he won’t shut up until he’s seen the inside of the Westfield Mall. 

“It’s got curved escalators,” he says passionately as they cross the street. Stiles rolls his eyes, wonders when Jackson stopped being a douche and just started being ridiculous.

+++

“But where are all the hippies and love children?” Scott asks, voice heavy with disappointment once they reach Haight street from where they spent the morning in the park. Scott sighs when all he sees are a McDonalds across the street from a Whole Foods. Isaac’s got an equally let down look on his face, and Stiles has to admit that he’s a little underwhelmed.

“Let’s just keep walking,” Allison says, grabbing his hand and pulling him further. It gets better down the way, but mostly ends up being about equal parts smoke shops, overpriced thrift stores, and small boutiques with price tags that explain away the thrift stores. 

(It doesn’t stop Scott from demanding a picture at the corner of Haight and Ashbury anyway, and Derek subtly shifts them so that they backdrop is more focused on the old victorians than the bright blue Ben and Jerry’s. It also doesn’t stop him from buying a tie-dye pipe, muttering something about aconite and special herbs under his breath).

“Scott, I found your hippies!” Erica says, pointing to a group of dreadlocked people with piercings and dirty clothes, a few of them busking on the corner.

“I don’t know if they can be considered hippies,” Boyd says, tilting his head to figure out if they might be homeless or just trying really hard. 

“Man, I don’t even care. They’ve got dogs,” Scott says, despite the fact that the dogs growl each time Scott gets too close to try and drop a dollar in the guitar case. After a minute, and an increasingly frustrated Scott, they all scamper closer to their owners with a whine. Stiles turns his head and sees lingering red fading from Derek’s eyes, a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

“Show off,” Stiles mutters, elbowing him in the ribs. Derek’s smirk just grows, but Stiles looks back and sees Scott happily petting one of the dogs, Isaac crouching closer to join. 

“You love it,” Derek says. Stiles elbows him again, but doesn’t say anything to the contrary. 

+++

(The thing about San Francisco - and big cities in general - is that there are plenty of hiding spots to make out in. Stiles makes it a personal mission to do so in as many as he can. 

"Consider it _my_ thing," he tells Derek, pulling him by the collar into a side street, mouthing at his neck the whole time. Derek goes along willingly, pushing desperately at Stiles’ t-shirt, and Stiles suspects a little that it might be Derek's thing too). 

+++

Tuesday is a series of wrong turns and upside down maps and a train trip that they don’t realize isn’t an SF MUNI train and they end up across the bay on the Berkeley campus. Isaac isn’t allowed to navigate anymore, needless to say.

Lydia and Jackson go off to ask about how to get back, and the rest leave to find lunch somewhere near campus. Stiles and Derek split off to walk around, because they've been on various busses and trains for the better part of the morning and Stiles can only take so much sitting still. 

Derek’s head rapidly turns from side to side trying to look at all of the buildings, each one a different style than the last. The campus is crawling with people - some running to class, some laughing and sitting in groups on patches of lawn, huddled around books like they had intended to study at one point and just decided to say fuck it instead. 

"I'm kind of excited," Stiles says, suddenly acutely aware that this is going to be him in a few months' time. Different campus. Same idea. 

"Yeah?" Derek says. "That's good. You should be."

If if Derek’s upset about everybody leaving, he's good at hiding it. That alone tells Stiles that he’s genuinely excited for them, because once he’d let him in, Derek basically became the worst at hiding what he’s feeling from Stiles.

"Want to?" Derek asks, nodding to a door that looks like the entrance to a lecture hall. Stiles bounces on his toes, excited. 

It's dark inside, and they sit in the far corner in the back of the room, closest to the door. There are _maybe_ 60 people in the room. Apparently not many people are interested in - he looks at the title on the top of the powerpoint - Cultural Anthropology in Comparative Perspective. He looks around and nobody's paying attention to their textbooks, most of them laying closed in front of them, so he asks to the sleepy-looking guy a few seats down if he can borrow his. 

"Thanks dude," he whispers, grabbing the book at flipping through the pages. He looks at the name of the professor written on the board, and it's the same as the name on the front of the book. He finds the section on mythological lore and legends and passes the book off to Derek, who looks down at it with interest.

They sit for the whole lecture, Derek silently reading the book with furrowed eyebrows, and Stiles carefully hanging on to every word out of the professor's mouth. 

"That was incredible," Stiles says when the lecture's over, and they've given the kid his book back. He’d just looked at it sadly and slumped away. "So much better than anything I've ever been tested on in high school. I'm pretty sure I could write a paper on the history of circumcisions and it would be actually be appreciated in that class instead of just Finstock making me run extra laps,” he says, eyeing a coffee cart and beelining for it, entwining his fingers with Derek’s as he goes. “How much of that book was accurate?”

“A surprising amount,” Derek says. He looks almost impressed, and Stiles makes a note to buy the book on amazon later. Or find a pdf of it online, whatever.

“God, that was like,” Stiles says. “There are whole _classes_ of that. Multiple times a week. That you can take. For _years_.”

“Stiles, my hand,” Derek says. Stiles stops walking and looks down. He’s clenching Derek’s hand so tight that his knuckles are turning white. He doubts Derek’s hurt, but he brings his hand up to his lips anyway, just to be sure. A soft smile curves over Derek’s lips, because they’re alone and he can do that. 

“Thanks,” Stiles says, not bothering to elaborate. Derek shrugs, but it’s basically the same as saying he’s welcome. Stiles leans in and catches Derek’s lips with his own, squeezing his hand between them. 

“Maybe you could get a room?” he hears from his left. He turns his head, moving his head only the barest inch and sees a flash of blonde hair.

“Maybe you could shut the fuck up?” Stiles offers, faux polite to match Erica’s faux-offense. Erica just smiles, and walks closer to pinch his cheek. 

“You’d be bored within five minutes, Stilinski,” she says, and he yanks his head out of her grasp. Her hands are decidedly claw-like, actual claws present or not. She raises her hand towards Derek like she’s going to pinch him too, and he just points a finger at her, taking a small step back and narrowing his eyes. She rolls her eyes, but keeps her hands to herself.

“I’ll admit to no such thing,” Stiles says. “Where are the others?”

“Coming. They stayed a little longer to finish watching the Giants game. Football, or something,” she says, shrugging.

“Baseball,” Stiles corrects automatically. She just raises an eyebrow at him, her face very clearly asking _do I care_?

“Whatever, I’m going to go see if they have a lacrosse team to spy on,” she says, walking away without another word. 

“I question all of your decisions sometimes,” he tells Derek when she’s out of earshot. Derek just nods, looking for all the world like he’s thinking the same thing. Stiles’ phone vibrates in his pocket a second later, and he fishes it out.

_don’t know about lacrosse, but i think i found mud wrestling?????_

And a second later, _i will never make fun of you and derek again if you guys do this!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

He snorts and holds the phone up so Derek can see it, bouncing on his toes hopefully. “No,’ Derek just says. Stiles shakes his head and pulls his phone back. 

“No fun,” he groans. “I take it back. I think I like Erica more than you.”

“I think I’ll live,” Derek lies, pulling on Stiles’ hand to start walking again. Stiles goes, texting Erica back with one hand. Derek smiles suddenly and Stiles looks up at him, questioning. 

“So...Stiles the Anthropologist?” Derek says, raising his eyebrows.

Stiles just grins at that, and can’t think of anything to say in return. 

“I weep for academia,” Derek says, pulling Stiles closer as he does.

+++

“Pass the syrup!” 

“No, I’m still using it.”

“Did somebody take my sausages?”

“You didn’t even order sausages.”

“Yes I did! Scott, did you take my sausages?” 

“Ow, Boyd, move your elbow. Stiles, why are you drinking coke at seven in the morning?”

“I don’t need your judgement, Lydia.”

Somebody had the bright idea of waking up bright and early for breakfast. Stiles kind of wants to punch that person on the face, because his dad’s the sheriff and he’s pretty sure it’s illegal to be awake before 8am when you’re on vacation. 

“That’s bad for your teeth, you know.”

“Why is nobody judging Scott for getting the pie?” Stiles asks.

“Boyd, seriously - your elbow.”

“I should have gotten the french toast,” Isaac says dejectedly, looking down at his plate.

“What are we even doing today?” Scott asks.

“Touristy stuff, I don’t know,” Stiles says.

“Embarcadero, Fisherman’s Wharf, the Marina, Chinatown,” Allison lists, pushing her empty plate away and slinking down a few inches in the booth.

“Scott, you’re eating my sausages!” Isaac says.

“Oh my god, it is way too early in the morning for this,” Stiles says, putting his head in his hands. He feels Derek’s arm wrap around his shoulder, and chooses to think it’s in solidarity rather than some kind of sarcastic pity. He leans in, too tired to complain either way. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything, just eyes Derek next to him as he slips his credit card into the case before anybody else can get a look at the check and leans back, head resting against the back of the booth. He catches Stiles looking at him, and rolls his eyes.

“Finish your breakfast, Stiles.”

“I can’t. Lydia’s judging me for my choice in cuisine. She’s given me a complex,” he says.

“Washing down eggs benedict with a coke is an abomination, Stiles. It’s seven in the morning,” Lydia says, taking a sip of her orange juice. Jackson nods fervently next to her, stuffing eggs into his mouth. He hasn’t said a word all morning, not one to talk before a pile of food and at least four cups of coffee. Stiles likes him best like this.

Stiles just takes a large gulp of his drink in retaliation, staring right at them both as he does. Lydia scoffs and turns back to Boyd. Stiles bobs his head excitedly, reveling in his small victory, and finds Derek looking at him with amusement. He’s already finished his food - like six small portions, each a different plate of weird breakfast items that Stiles had never even heard of.

“You’re judging me too?” he asks.

“I’m not doing anything, Stiles,” Derek says, grinning smugly.

“Is food your thing?” Stiles asks abruptly, hoping to catch him off guard. Derek’s eyebrows just raise an inch instead, and Stiles glares at them. 

“It’s my thing as in I like to eat it,” Derek says. “And I do so to stay alive.”

“Yeah alright, asshole. You could have just said no,” Stiles says grumpily.

“Allison’s asleep again,” Isaac says, poking Allison in the arm.

“She always falls asleep first at stuff,” Scott says fondly.

“No seriously, where did the syrup go?” Erica says, looking around the table.

“Erica’s always second,” Boyd says through a mouthful of eggs.

“I am not!”

“Do you think the waitress will bring me a new fork? I dropped mine in the mustard,” Isaac says.

“Maybe if we weren’t doing this so early in the morning, we could stay awake for it,” Erica says defensively.

“Would you rather sleep, or avoid the crowds,” Lydia asks, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“I enjoy sleeping.”

“Shut up, Scott. That’s not my point,” Lydia says, rolling her eyes, though not unkindly.

Stiles feels Derek slump a little next to him, a heavy warmth against his side. His eyes are half closed, and Stiles can feel his breathing level out.

Erica’s in the clear. Derek’s totally going to fall asleep second.

 

“Stiles, look up,” Erica says, pointing to something above his head. He looks up, and immediately regrets it as he’s accosted with a huge copper horse head. 

“Jesus Christ,” he says, jumping out from underneath the gigantic horse statue. It’s got a full body, and is at least six inches taller than he is. It’s easily top five scariest thing he’s ever been confronted with. Which, with his life, says something. “Who puts that in a shop?”

“Chinatown, one,” Erica says, raising a finger in the air. “Stilinski, zero.”

“Shut up, or I’ll find one that looks like a spider and push you into it,” Stiles says, taking several steps back from the horse. Erica narrows her eyes at him, trying to decide if he’s serious or not. He stares back, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. After a moment, she huffs and throws her hair over her shoulder.

“Like you could push me, anyway,” she says and walks away. A few stores down, he finds a giant statue of a wolf made of bronze. He points it out to Derek, who eyes it critically for a moment before shrugging. 

“I’m bigger,” he says simply.

+++

San Francisco settles deep in Stiles’ skin. Turn a corner and it’s a new neighborhood to fall in love with - practically a whole new city with the lean stretch of a few blocks.

Hayes valley is wide and open, at least 5 degrees warmer than anywhere else in the city. The Castro vibrates with noise, the theatre standing out like a beacon at the end of Market Street. The Presidio is sprawling and green, North Beach doesn’t sleep, and the Financial District stands tall like it’s looking down on the rest. Geary feels like the biggest place Stiles has ever been, wide streets stretching from downtown to the Pacific. He looks west and feels dizzy like he’s going to fall off the edge of the earth. Inner Sunset reminds him of downtown Beacon Hills, shops and restaurants mingling with residents on the single cloudy day of the week. 

“Just remember - the Tenderloin ain’t so tender,” a local on the bus tells them when he spots Lydia furiously studying a map of the city. Stiles writes it down as a note in his phone.

They walk the Golden Gate, resting at the park on the other side and Stiles falls asleep on top of one of the big marble platforms. He’s certain there’ll be pictures to untag on facebook later, but the view of the city from the Marin side of the bridge as he falls asleep does well to ease the pain of badly instagrammed pictures of his sleeping face.

San Francisco ends up being, more than almost anything else, about the food. There’s a bad experience the first night with the food court at the Westfield, but they make up for it the next night by asking a university kid where all of the best places to eat are. 

Which is how they end up getting pizza at 1 in the morning on Geary because, “it’s better after midnight, trust me,” sitting in a hole in the wall place with ugly fluorescent lighting and high ceilings, but eating the best pizza he’s sure he’s ever had. Or maybe it’s just because it’s after midnight and that kid was right (it doesn’t stop him from downing three pieces because they’re huge and only 4 bucks).

It’s how they end up on Clement at noon, eating crepes from a convenience store that sells Yu-Gi-Oh! action figures and Asprin in the same aisle. 

It’s how they end up getting burritos in the Mission, and chicken and waffles on Balboa, and drinking watermelonade on Franklin. It’s how Stiles learns that Derek is secretly a huge foodie, and that he really, really, likes ice cream (and likes when Stiles kisses it off of his skin when it melts down his wrist and chin and collarbone and - ). 

+++

Wednesday is museum day, and Allison's practically vibrating with excitement the entire time. He’s pretty she’s going to spontaneously combust as the bus takes them up the long driveway to the Legion of Honor. They turn a corner, and even Stiles has to force himself to tear his eyes away. It’s probably the classiest thing he’s ever seen in California - huge fountains out front, a palace nice enough to take attention away from the never ending expanse of the Pacific ocean that sits behind it. 

Allison practically runs through the entrance, stopping for just a moment to stare down the small glass pyramid out front before rushing the rest of the way inside. Scott hurries in after her, the rest following suit. Derek stalls around the archway, looking carefully at the pillars and carvings. Stiles hovers, crossing his arms and looking back and forth between Derek and the building. 

“You know the art’s _inside_ , right?” Stiles teases, standing close enough to bump shoulders. 

“Not always,” Derek says. Something warms inside Stiles’ chest at that, and he grabs Derek’s hand in his own. 

“Come on, Bob the Builder,” he says after a moment, pulling Derek towards the door. 

+++

“We should go do something,” Lydia says, nudging at Jackson’s shin. 

“We are doing something,” Jackson says. 

“We should do something _else_ ,” she clarifies, and Stiles can’t see her, but he’s got a pretty good idea of the sugar-sweet smile that she’s directing at Jackson right now.

Stiles is lounging lazily on the grass outside of the conservatory of flowers, listening to the casual din of conversation around him. Erica and Scott are arguing about pizza places, and Allison’s laying with her head in Scott’s lap, reading a book and biting absently at her nail. Stiles closes his eyes and enjoys the sun washing over him. It’s 70 and sunny, and Golden Gate Park is dizzy with people rollerblading and busking on the grass like they have nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon. 

“It’s in the park. We don’t even have to go that far,” Lydia says calmly. She’s staring down at her nails rather than at Jackson, fully aware that he hates it when she doesn’t pay attention to him when they’re talking. 

“Why would I want to spend an afternoon at the Exploratorium or whatever the fuck?” Jackson says, nostrils flaring as he stares grumpily at Lydia’s nails. 

“Oh, don’t insult me,” Lydia scoffs. “It’s the Academy of Arts and Sciences, not that germ-infested excuse for third-grade field trips.”

“You went there in third grade,” Stiles chimes in. “You talked about it for a month.”

“Shut it, Stilinski,” Lydia says, not taking her eyes from her nails. Jackson nods furiously in agreement and she elbows him. “You too.”

He hears a loud breath from next to him and turns to catch Derek shaking his head. Stiles can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but he’s pretty sure there’s some pretty heavy eye rolling happening there too. 

“It’s rude to laugh,” Stiles tells him, just to be an asshole. “We should support Jackson in his time of need.”

“His time of need?” Derek asks, one eyebrow peeking out from behind those stupid aviators.

“He hasn’t been shopping in like six hours,” Stiles says. “He’s going through a rough time.”

“Shut it, Stilinski,” Jackson echoes, throwing a handful of grass at him. It’s pretty weak, and he seems to realize as much because he follows it up by glaring at Stiles like it’s his fault and digging his fingers into the dirt. Stiles just sits up and grins in response. 

“Jackson,” Lydia says, and there’s an edge to the tone now. Jackson groans and drops down to his back, his arms spread on either side of him like he’s a fucking christ figure or something. 

“Martyr,” Stiles says under his breath, and hears Derek laugh from his other side. He’s sure Jackson heard it too, but he’s very successfully ignoring almost everything around him, breathing slowly and clenching his eyes shut. He breathes for a few more seconds before sitting up abruptly and opening his eyes. 

“Fine. Let’s go,” Jackson says, smiling thinly at Lydia and getting to his feet. She grins and stands, brushing off her skirt and flipping her hair behind her shoulder. 

“Bye guys!” she says happily, grabbing Jackson’s hand and pulling him down the sidewalk, weaving between couples pushing strollers and cyclists ignoring the marked bike lanes. Stiles watches them go, pretending to gag when, after a moment, Jackson wraps an arm around Lydia’s shoulders and pulls her close, dropping a kiss to the side of her head. 

Stiles drops back down to his laying position, closing his eyes and enjoying the sun warmed grass underneath him, tickling his back where his shirt’s ridden up. 

“It’s forty degrees in Beacon Hills right now,” he sighs happily. 

“You’ll have to go back in a few days,” Derek points out, and Stiles flaps a hand out in his direction. It hits him in the arm, and Stiles’ hand drags down the length of it as it falls back to the ground, outstretched.

“We’re not talking about that right now,” he says. “I’m staying here forever.”

“You know it gets cold in the summer, right?” Derek says, mimicking Stiles’ position and laying down on the grass next to him.

“Oh yeah,” he says. “What a weird fucking city.”

Derek hums, and Stiles turns his head to glance at his profile. He can see Derek’s eyes slipping shut from the side where his glasses don’t cover. Stiles shifts, adjusting his shirt and stretching his legs out on the grass. The movement slides him a few inches closer to Derek, lazy and sated. Derek relaxes further into the grass and his fingers twitch in Stiles’ direction, going still near his wrist. Stiles smirks to himself and turns his head away.

He looks at Allison, asleep now with her book on her chest. Isaac and Boyd have joined Scott and Erica’s furious debate of Gaspare’s vs. Patxi’s. Scott looks mortally offended over something, and Isaac’s got his hands hovering near his head like he’s trying not to shove his fingers in his ears. 

“Everybody’s got the week all planned out with what they want to see. Lydia’s doing her’s right now. You’ve got to have _something_ ,” Stiles says after a minute of letting the sun soak into his bones.

“I don’t, Stiles,” Derek says, voice pitched low and lazy. Stiles licks his lips and flicks his eyes towards Derek’s throat.

“There’s gotta be something, dude,” Stiles repeats, gesturing with his hands. "Nobody likes _nothing_.”

“I don’t really like big cities,” Derek answers, his eyes slipping closed again. Stiles is quiet for a minute, thinks about New York and, for some reason, the San Francisco fire of 1906. He taps his fingers on the grass, a dull thump against the dirt. He’s about to open his mouth when he hears a strangled cry from Scott. 

“You are so wrong,” he says, grasping at his hair.

“No, _you’re_ wrong,” Erica cries, throwing her hands out in front of her. “You’re so wrong it’s _painful_. I want to hire a tutor and give you pop quizzes so that you can stop being so wrong. ”

Isaac nods seriously behind her, and Boyd pats Scott on the shoulder, looking offended on his behalf. Stiles taps Derek on the first place he can reach - his stomach, if the twitch of muscle underneath his hand is any indication - and points at the show when he’s got his attention. Derek leans up on his elbows and his lips quirk upward. They take a moment to appreciate the role reversal, and Derek laughs, flopping back down. 

“I like _that_ ,” he says simply, and Stiles really can’t think of anything to dispute that.

He looks back and forth between Derek on the ground and where Erica has Scott in a headlock, Isaac torn between laughing and helping. Boyd’s tying Erica’s shoelaces together. Stiles deliberates for a moment, eyes getting caught on Derek’s. He grins and jumps into the pile, taking an elbow to the sternum and he laughs.

+++

“It’s San Francisco. The vacation gods will literally smite us if we don’t go to a gay club,” Erica addresses them all when they’re back from the park, glaring at them all like they’d do better not to say anything otherwise. 

Scott perks up a little in his chair, obviously remembering his last experience - pre-lizardnapping. Stiles shoves him on the shoulder, but only gets him an even bigger grin in response because Scott is the worst. 

“I don’t know if you remember, but I don’t exactly have the best track records with gay clubs,” Jackson says, raising a finger with a superior look on his face. His eyes slide over to Stiles, and Stiles just bro-nods at him. Jackson’s nostrils flare and he looks away, crossing his arms across his chest.

“Yeah, well. You got your scaly little problem fixed, didn’t you? You’ll be fine,” Erica says, batting a hand at him and turning to face the others. Jackson furrows his eyebrows and looks put out. Stiles thinks he sees him mumbling something about Danny under his breath. Erica looks expectantly at Stiles, one eyebrow raised like a challenge. Stiles holds out for a long minute, eyeing her back and hoping it’s enough to make her back off. She just crosses her arms and tilts her chin up an inch, and Stiles throws his arms out and huffs.

“Fine,” he says, pointing a finger at her. “But I’m not dancing.”

She looks him up and down, slow enough that Stiles almost feels violated. She gives him the scary shark grin and he involuntarily tries to bury into the couch a little. He feels Derek’s arm rub his shoulder from where it’s slung over the back of the couch. 

Erica leans down and pulls a bottle of Jack from her bag. She lifts her eyebrows. “We’ll see about that.”

 

“I’m not going,” Derek says simply, sitting down on the bed and crossing his arms petulantly. It’s almost funny, but Stiles knows that laughing at him won’t help his cause. 

“Yes you are,” Stiles says, digging through their suitcases on the floor. 

“No I’m not.”

“Derek.”

“I’m not.”

“Is your thing being a pain in my ass?” Stiles asks. 

“Everyday.”

Stiles huffs and tosses a shirt onto the desk, standing up and fixing Derek with a stare. “Why not? It’s just a club.”

“Exactly,” Derek says like it’s self-evident. 

“It’s just dancing. And bad Top 40 remixes. And....and glitter!” Stiles says, cringing because he’s fully aware that those are not very convincing arguments. They’re the best he’s got though, which isn’t a very promising prospect. 

“It’s an 18+ club, Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles sighs, going back to his search.

“So what? You’re not that old. Yelp reviews say that older guys go in there all the time. You’ll practically be jailbait with the rest of us,” Stiles says. Everything online said pretty much the same thing, so he’d figured finding a club without the obligatory middle aged man lurking in the corner was a lost cause.

“Bad music,” Derek says.

“Dub-step remixes,” Stiles counters. It’s not much of a counter, and Derek looks unimpressed. 

“I don’t dance.”

“Alcohol could fix that,” Stiles grins.

“I can’t get drunk,” Derek rolls his eyes, and Stiles throws a sock at him.

“Bullshit, you know Scott brought that voodoo vodka wolfsbane stuff,” Stiles says. He shrugs. “But it’s up to you, dude. I can just find somebody else to dance with, if I _really_ have to.” 

Derek groans and flops to his back on the bed. Stiles shouldn’t be, but he’s exceptionally pleased with how childish Derek’s being about this. 

“Immaturity doesn’t look good on you Derek,” Stiles lies. He finally finds the shirt he was looking for and pulls it on. It’s the shirt he wore on his birthday in January, the one he still finds Derek smiling at when he thinks Stiles isn’t looking. 

Derek sits up abruptly, mouth open and poised for another defense, but he stops short when he sees the shirt. Stiles smirks - he knows it looks good on him, he knows what it reminds Derek of. 

“Foul play,” Derek says, voice deep and he licks his lips. Stiles just turns around and walks into the living room where they others are busy pregaming. Scott’s already sloppy and laughing, kissing Isaac loudly on the cheek. Isaac looks oddly pleased, and Erica’s got her phone trained firmly on them. 

Derek emerges ten minutes later, wearing a different shirt and his nice jeans. He walks straight towards Scott and takes the shot glass from his hand. Scott protests, but Derek throws it back without a word and refills it, sitting down as he does.

“Shut up,” he tells Stiles, but it lacks any heat. He grabs Stiles’ hand and pulls him down onto the couch with him, hooking a finger underneath the collar of the shirt and rubbing circles into the skin. “If they play that ‘call me’ song, I’m out.”

“Deal,” Stiles agrees. They shake on it.

 

Stiles is covered in glitter. Or sparkles. 

Confetti? 

“Hey, Allison - Allison,” he yells over the music. “Is there a difference between glitter and sparkles?”

She furrows her eyebrows at him, her eyes going slightly unfocused. She starts giggling after a moment, and covers her mouth to hide the noise, eyes going big. “I don’t know!”

“You’re drunk,” Stiles says. He’s never seen Allison drunk, and it’s kind of delightful.

“You are,” she says, pointing at him. Her aim is a little off and she hits him in the cheek. 

“Are the others still?” he asks, looking around the club to try and spot them. He thinks he sees a flash of blond hair sandwiched between two people he’s never seen, and he knows Derek left to find the bathroom a few minutes ago. 

“I think so?” she says, squinting an eye and following his line of sight. He sees Scott doubled over in laughter while Isaac grasps at his shoulder. They straighten up quickly and continue with what looks like the bastardized middle child of of Miss Mary Mac and and Rock Paper Scissors. Allison nods, and meets his eyes with a faux-serious air. “Definitely.”

“I feel like I need to savor this moment,” Stiles says, not taking his eyes from Scott across the room. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen Scott drunk?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him drunk, now that you mention it,” Allison says, tilting her head. 

“He never wants to do the wolfsbane stuff,” Stiles sighs, and he’s definitely not pouting. He doesn’t do that.

“You’re pouting!” Allison cries, her face bright under the flashing lights. 

“Am not,” Stiles says, turning his head away. 

“Yes you are! See,” she says, grabbing onto his bottom lip and pulling at it. It catches him off guard, and he feels a surprised noise escape from his throat. 

“Derek in a better mood?” Allison asks, letting go of his lip and looking earnest. She tries really hard, even still, to be kind to Derek and not give him any trouble, even when the rest of them are running wild and driving him crazy.

Stiles flaps a hand vaguely, rolling his eyes. “He’s fine. He complains, but he just likes to be around everybody. If we’re having a good time, he’s having a good time.” 

Allison nods. “I get that. Scott spent three hours in Anthropologie with me yesterday. He snuck into my dressing room and -”

“No no no, stop there. I don’t need to hear this,” Stiles says, crossing his fingers like an X in front of Allison’s face. She throws her head back and laughs. 

“No, nothing like that! Though...those dressing rooms _are_ big...” she says. She loses her focus for a moment, a crooked smile on her face before Stiles snaps his fingers in front of her and she shakes her head a little. Stiles decides that he likes Drunk Allison, best friend-debauchery aside, “No, he read me my book in funny voices while I tried on dresses. He seemed to be having enough fun,” she says, shrugging. 

Stiles loses track of the conversation - something about Scott’s Russian accent and Atticus Finch - and they’re laughing when he feels hands wrap around his middle. He twists in shock, hand dropping to his pocket for the safety whistle Lydia passed out to them all before they left (“Claws are not a guarantee of safety!”). He sees familiar features as he turns, and relaxes. Feels his back arch.

“There you are,” he says, grabbing onto the back of Derek’s neck and pulling him closer. He presses a sloppy kiss above Derek’s jaw, and feels the muscles stretch into a smile underneath his lips. He smiles against Derek’s skin, warm and flushed from the heat of the room. 

“Thought I lost you,” Derek says in his ear. 

“Couldn’t happen,” Stiles says, pulling Derek even closer and sliding his arms down to his waist. He moves Derek’s hips to the beat, and Derek laughs, pliant under his hands and Stiles can’t help but press another kiss to his jaw, his cheek, next to his eye. After a few more seconds of this, Derek huffs and grabs his face between his hands, finding his lips and Stiles forgets to breathe. He kisses back anyway, and vaguely registers Allison saying something about finding Scott and bouncing away.

The song changes to a weird remix of Call Me Maybe and he laughs into Derek’s mouth.

“Dammit, and they were doing so well,” Stiles says, shaking his head disappointedly. 

“I’m surprised it took them this long,” Derek says, leaning into Stiles. Stiles make a face like, _what can you do_ and Derek nods in agreement.

“The music leaves something to be desired,” Stiles admits.

“These clubs in general leave something to be desired,” Derek says, sounding smug. Stiles digs his fingers into the muscles in his back instead of replying, but knows Derek has him beat. 

He turns his head to look around and has to concede that it’s kind of a mess. The floor is sticky and there’s a huge mass of people moving as one in the middle of the room, like a hive or a fucking whirlpool with leaves caught in it or something. The MC keeps yelling ridiculous things into the microphone every ten minutes and there was a weird remix of Someone Like You a while ago that kind of made Stiles want to cry, which shouldn’t really be the point of somewhere like this.

He’s mostly just having a good time because of the people he’s here with, which he guesses is the important thing anyway. This remix really is terrible though.

“So uh, do you want to get out of here?” Stiles asks, raising his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Are you trying to pick me up?” Derek asks, but he’s already grabbing for Stiles’ hand and pulling him toward the coat check.

“Something like that,” Stiles says, grabbing the check number from Derek’s front pocket with a wink and leaving him by the bar. Their coats got buried underneath a horrible fur monstrosity that looks like it time traveled from 1974, and he watches the attendant fight his way through a pound of leather jackets that he’s almost positive all belong to the people he came with. Eventually, he resurfaces, his and Derek’s coats in his grasp and hands them off to Stiles. 

He’s sliding an arm into his hoodie and popping his lips absently when he sees Derek standing against the wall, looking over the shoulder of some poor bastard trying to get his attention. Stiles slows down and bites at his bottom lip to keep from laughing. The guy’s attractive enough, but he must have snuck in somehow, because he can’t be older than sixteen. He’s sweaty and wearing an obnoxious t-shirt, twitchy like he can’t decide what his limbs are supposed to be doing.

Stiles shakes his head at the irony, but rolls his eyes because he knows it’s not the same.

“I - what,” Derek says, finally noticing the kid like a gnat buzzing in front of his face. 

“I just - uh, you...you’re alone?” the guy eventually spits out. Derek’s eyebrows furrow, and he looks at the kid like he’s considering finding a fly swatter. Instead, Derek just gives him a look like he’s not entirely sure what he thinks he’s going to accomplish here. 

“No,” he deadpans like its obvious, shaking his head a little and looking over his shoulder again. He meets Stiles’ eyes and Stiles takes pity on the kid, walking over and putting an arm around Derek. 

“Ready?” he asks. The kid’s mouth is gaping, and he just nods really fast and gives them both a huge smile, like it’s no big deal. He does some kind of gesture with his hand, like a thumbs up or a wave or something, and scampers back to his friends in the corner. 

“Hm,” Stiles hums, watching him go. 

“What?” Derek asks. 

“Nothing. I just didn’t expect anybody actually come up and do it,” Stiles says, handing Derek his jacket and heading for the door. 

“What does that mean?” Derek asks, sidling up next to him as they leave the club, cool night air hitting them like a blast. There’s fog in front of them, but the street lights are visible enough in the haze.

“What do you mean, what does that mean? People have been eyeing you all night - people far more worthy than that kid. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed,” Stiles laughs. Derek just shakes his head, and Stiles grabs his arm to lead him to the bus stop. “I have to say, this is kind of working for me.”

“What is?” Derek asks. 

“This whole monogamy thing. It’s kind of a turn on,” he smirks and Derek raises his eyebrows, throwing an arm over Stiles’ shoulders and pulling him close. 

“You could have been a little nicer though,” Stiles says, giving Derek a stern look. He holds it as long as he can before snorting and hiding his face in Derek’s shoulder. For his part, Derek mostly just looks like he’s regretting every choice that’s led him here. But he’s smiling, so it doesn’t really count.

 

Stiles wakes up Friday, warm and comfortable, buried under a mountain of blankets and pillows. He stretches an arm out, finds Derek's side warm but empty. He lifts his head and looks around, registers the shower running, and sleepily lays back down with a content sigh. He spares a thought for whether he should join Derek or not, but it doesn’t get very far before a loud mass of arms and muscles comes bounding through the door and bouncing onto the empty half of the bed. Stiles peeks an eye open and sees Scott's smiling face, and he kind of wants to punch it except it's kind of the most adorable thing he's ever seen. 

"What are you doing," Stiles grumbles anyway. 

"Rise and shine," Scott says, cuddling up next to Stiles on the bed, covering himself with the still-warm blankets. 

"I reject your early morning greeting," Stiles says. 

"It's not even early. It's almost noon, dude," Scott says. "Everyone slept in."

"I vote we keep it that way," Stiles says, snuggling further into the blankets. 

"We're going to the beach today," Scott says. "Allison's hungover and threatened me with an arrow to the ass if I made her do anything that requires effort. So, beach." 

"Aren't you hungover?" Stiles asks, vividly remembering sloppy Scott practically hanging off of a giggling Isaac all night.

"I will admit, under extreme circumstances, that being a werewolf has its perks," Scott shrugs. Stiles wants to hit him again. Instead, he cuddles closer because apparently best friend time is an instinct that Stiles just can’t fight, so he tucks his head in and breathes deep because what the fuck ever.

“Should I be worried?” he hears from the bathroom doorway. He looks up at Derek, who’s rubbing at his hair with a towel and wearing another around his waist, and shrugs. He hadn’t even heard the water turn off.

“Scott had first dibs, dude,” he says. He sinks back in, and feels Scott’s chest moving with silent laughter. Derek rolls his eyes and goes back into the bathroom, leaving Stiles and Scott to stay for another 20 minutes.

 

Stiles falls asleep again on the beach. He at least remembers to cuddle up next to the right werewolf this time, which has to count for something.

(Ocean Beach feels like it’s an entirely new city, slow and lazy in ways that other parts of the city aren’t. It reminds Stiles of one of those sleepy beach towns you read about in books or see in movies, but don’t actually exist. They pop into the Safeway across the street for snacks, and there’s sand in the aisles and Stiles wants to take it all home with him).

+++

“Stiles, where are we going?” Derek asks for the thousandth time, grudgingly allowing himself to be pushed up the steps of the bus. “It’s like six in the morning. Weren’t you _just_ complaining about waking up early?”

“I figured out your thing,” Stiles says with a maniacal grin. He’d spent much of yesterday watching Derek watch the Cliffhouse, a huge restaurant hanging off the side of a cliff overlooking the ocean, and it _clicked_. It’s pretty stupid that it took him this long, looking back. “You thought I wouldn’t, but you are the least subtle person on the _planet_ , which I mean, I already knew, but now I’ve got more evidence which I fully plan on using to my advantage one day, so watch out.”

“My thing," Derek says, sitting down in a seat towards the back. Stiles takes the seat next to him, the bus lurching and pressing them together all along their sides. 

“Your thing,” Stiles repeats with a confident nod. Derek just raises his eyebrows, and Stiles gestures out the window insistently. 

“Okay,” Derek allows. “So what is my thing?”

“Archways!” Stiles says happily. Derek looks at him, narrowing his eyes and nodding the most sarcastic nod Stiles has ever seen. 

“You’re right, I came to San Francisco for archways,” he says. Stiles rolls his eyes. 

“Shut up, I mean like. Architecture and stuff. Buildings, intricate designs. Old houses and eye-catchers,” Stiles lists. “Archways!”

“Stiles, I didn’t come to San Francisco because of the buildings,” Derek says. Stiles is tempted to wave a hand at him again, but the look on Derek’s face is earnest enough that Stiles just sighs and leans in. 

“I _know_ ,” he says. “And Lydia didn’t come for the science academy thing, and Allison didn’t come for the art, and Isaac didn’t come for the cable cars.”

“Jackson -” 

“Definitely came just for the shopping,” Stiles allows. “But I get it. We’re all here for each other, alright,” Stiles says. “It’s why we’ve been following each other around all week, doing pretty much everything anybody wants to do, and it’s why we’re here together in the first place - get out of Beacon Hills and just _relax_.”

Derek looks like he’s going to say something, but just nods instead. Stiles wraps an arm around the back of the seat. “But I saw you eyeing those victorians on Haight - you looked like you wanted to pick them up and do dirty things to them once you got them home. I have to be honest, I was a little jealous.”

“They’re perfectly restored, and have more history in one window than than any boring suburb in America,” he says simply, raising his eyebrows like a challenge. Stiles just shakes his head, because he fell in love with a freak with weird passions. 

He spends most of his free time reading about aconite poisoning and ancient werewolf lore though, so pot, kettle, whatever. 

They spend their last day seeing as much of the city as they can - differently this time. Civic Center, the victorians in Alamo Square, the ceiling of Neiman Marcus, The White House (which now houses a Banana Republic, and Derek nearly throws a fit), the Palace of Fine Arts, and really, Stiles loses track after lunch.

"Did you know that it's legal to be naked outside here?" Stiles asks, lazily walking down Fulton street. Derek's thumb is rubbing along Stiles' knuckles, their shoulders bumping lightly as they walk. Personal space is never an option. "Why haven’t we taken advantage of that?" 

"Not for lack of trying," Derek says, and Stiles winces. Upside of having side streets and alleys every other block - downside of traveling with seven of your friends. "And I think the law is a little more complicated than that."

"So you can’t, then?” Stiles asks, personally affronted. "What the hell kind of city is this?"

Derek doesn't respond, and Stiles is yanked back when Derek stops walking, but doesn't let go of his hand. 

"What - oh," Stiles says, seeing what's grabbed Derek's attention. He looks up and sees the twin spires and huge dome of St. Ignatius church. "Okay, I've lost you. Go - go find god or something," Stiles says, nudging Derek forward toward the huge front steps of and walking in afterward. Derek spends the better part of an hour looking at the half dome inside. 

"I studied it," Derek says after a while, on their way to the next destination. 

"Huh?” Stiles says, looking up from his map. 

"Architecture, I studied it in New York. A little," he shrugs. 

"You should finish," Stiles says. Derek look skeptical, and Stiles stops walking. "No, I'm serious. Do you even know how many houses in Beacon Hills need restoring? They're all old and awesome, but haven't been taken care of in years. You could totally be that person. The rest of us will all be of off at college leaning stuff or whatever. You could be too." 

Derek doesn't say anything, but looks at Stiles thoughtfully. After a moment, he pulls him in with an arm around his shoulder, connecting their lips and cupping Stiles' jaw with his free hand. Stiles kisses back happily, his arms going around Derek's middle. 

"Wanna go test that naked law?" Stiles asks when they resurface, only half-joking. 

 

They end up at the top of Twin Peaks at dusk, and Stiles is hit once again with how glad he is that he got a chance to get out of Beacon Hills, if even for a short time. He watches the sun disappear to his left, darkness falling horizontally over downtown and spreading to the rest of the city like a virus.

Derek’s a nature guy. He likes trees he can climb, woods he can disappear in, and hills that he can run up and jump off of, but even he has to appreciate the natural cadence of the city from above. San Francisco looks like it’s been built around the landscape, instead of the other way around - rolling with the hills and falling effortlessly into the ocean. It’s condensed itself into the rhythm of the bay.

“Not all of your ideas are bad ones,” Derek says eventually. Stiles shoves him away, but Derek’s got a smile trailing over his features and Stiles can’t help but pull him back and catch it with his own. Their lips meet easy like ocean beach at sunset, or a cable car ride at noon. His head spins with nutella crepes and the skyline from the Bay Bridge, and he wraps his hands around Derek like fog in the early evening, and he feels good - warm in the bay area spring. They go back to the recovering fever of Beacon Hills tomorrow, but for the moment he’s got the Golden Gate buzzing underneath his skin and he’s good.

**Author's Note:**

> [this](http://i.imgur.com/qRF04B1.png) is a conversation that happened in the process of writing this. So i mean, obviously character arcs and growth and Very Serious Business were concerns here.
> 
>    
> [I'm on tumblr! Come say hi~](http://mccalled.tumblr.com)


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